


Mike Carden: Werewolf Hunter

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Midtown, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is...
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike has a destiny. It sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mike Carden: Werewolf Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) who wanted Mike Carden fic. And really, failbots being failbotty in other genres is always awesome. I took some liberties with timelines and lunar cycles. Sorry about that.

  
All Mike Carden ever wanted to do was play the guitar.

On his thirteenth birthday, he saw the package sitting on the table and he was convinced it was a guitar. It was destined to be the best birthday ever, at least until he unwrapped it and destiny took a new, really fucked up turn. Because what he thought was a guitar was a crossbow and instead of the facts of life, his dad and aunt Martha sat him down and explained that he wasn’t like most boys. He had a calling.

He was a werewolf hunter.

Mike figured his family had been hitting the gin a little hard until he actually inspected his new gift and, instead of the NERF crossbow he expected, he sliced open his finger on the silver tip of one of the bolts and had to suck down the coppery taste of blood. “Holy shit. This is _real_.”

“Well, of course it is,” Martha said, pouring herself another drink. “And watch your mouth.” She came over, lifted the bow up, and settled it in her grip. “One thing this family will never joke about, Michael, and that’s werewolves.”

**

He trains every day after school and homework, because his parents want him to get a good education and a good job and not work in The Gap just because he has to spend half his nights skulking around the woods looking for errant werewolves. He tries to explain to his parents that he’s not going to find any, since there isn’t any such fucking thing as a werewolf, but his parents have no intention of listening to him on that score. Or any other, for that matter.

He’s argued that it takes away from his schoolwork and, by extension, ruining his life – he’s not about to be any sort of grand academic and if he goes to college on a swimming scholarship he won’t be able to afford the rest of the college experience, he’s not going to have a good job, because there aren’t any good jobs that he has any kind of talent for and The Gap isn’t hiring. And there aren’t any fucking werewolves in Chicago, its neighboring suburbs or along the El track line.

After a while, he starts blowing off training because he gets money from his grandparents (on his mother’s side – no werewolf destiny on that side, thank you very much) and he buys a fucking _guitar_ like he wanted and he starts jamming with some guys he knows from school and the scene. It’s better than wearing camouflage and learning how to melt down silver to make his own bolt tips. It’s actually a whole fucking lot better, and when Jodie forms, he’s more than happy to become their rhythm guitarist.

Of course, he’s less happy when he realizes that, as a band, Jodie sucks. They all suck, even Mike, because it’s hard to get better when half of your practices are spent bemoaning how much you all suck. They play a few gigs and suck their way through those, listening to people afterwards talk about how much they sucked. Most of it doesn’t bother him because he’s in a fucking _band_ , but then he runs into William Beckett, and it sort of bothers him.

A lot.

Because William Beckett is this fucking straight-A-earning, baseball-playing scene kid who towers over everyone else like some kind of earnest giant, about as big around as Mike’s fist and singing his fucking heart out, writing lyrics that make Mike want to punch people. William uses words like _hesitance_ in his lyrics and makes it sound like it should be on the radio, and sings about shit that might be cutting or might be suicide or might just be some fucked up thing with a girl. Either way, it bothers Mike that William Beckett knows that his band sucks.

Eventually Jodie break up, even though they don’t so much break up as just stop sucking together. And Beckett’s working at The Gap, and Mike eventually did get a job there, so they see each other as they switch off shifts. They talk about music during breaks when they work at the same time, and during hours of folding the same t-shirts in thirty different colors. Occasionally they beat each other up with the folding boards and almost become friends when William _finally_ suggests they start a band together.

“Only, you know, one that doesn’t suck.”

“We didn’t suck.”

“You completely sucked. Everything about you sucked. Your lyrics. Your playing. Your rhythm. Your name. You guys sucked so much, Hoover and Dyson were fighting for the rights to you.”

“Fuck you.”

“So, we’ll be like the antithesis of Jodie.”

“Who the fuck says antithesis?”

“People who want to be the opposite of Jodie.”

“So say opposite. Christ. Fucking prima donna.”

William grins and Mike flips him off and then they’re a band. All in all, it’s pretty awesome.

Until the werewolf thing comes along to fuck it up.

**

“I’m sorry. You _what_?”

William, when he’s pissed off, is a sight to behold. He grows about seven inches, turns all red like flames of anger, and his voice does this thing that Mike can’t quite explain. It’s not that it changes or rises or anything like that. There aren’t new octaves discovered or the potential of William becoming a eunuch. It’s just that it’s different and dangerous and it kind of reminds Mike of his great-great grandfather, Zachariah, who used to talk like he’d been drinking razorblades instead of coffee.

“I can’t make the show tonight.”

“You can’t fucking make the show tonight.” He says it like it’s a reasonable thing, like Mike isn’t fucking them both over with a chainsaw. “Of course you can’t make the show. Because why would you do that? Why on earth would you actually show up to the gig that might actually be our big break, given that we’re opening for a real fucking _band_.”

“It’s just…there’s this thing.”

“A _thing_.”

It’s kind of amazing how much emphasis William can put on a word. Mike’s no great stretch at English, but he’s relatively certain that ‘thing’ is one syllable and shouldn’t sound like some sort of medieval torture device. “Yeah. A thing. A family thing.” He really can’t explain that tonight has been astrologically determined as a prime night for werewolf carnage. “I’m pretty sure I mentioned it.”

That’s a complete and utter lie, given that Mike just found out two hours ago when his dad called him and told Mike to break out the old crossbow, they were going hunting. It was like some sort of backwoods Deliverance speech and Mike has to hold in a maniacal giggle because he’s almost tempted to ask William to squeal like a pig. Except that would get him killed. He’s pretty sure William would be able to do it with just his mind.

“No. You didn’t mention it. If you had _mentioned_ it, we wouldn’t have a gig scheduled for tonight. We wouldn’t, I don’t know, be signed up to play the opener for fucking _Mid-fucking-town_ , you stupid fucking idiot.” William loses his cool in increments, his voice doing that thing again.

“If this is about your crush on Saporta…”

Mike doesn’t actually get any farther than that, since William punches him in the throat. Mike coughs and sputters and stumbles backwards, tripping over his guitar case and landing on his ass and then his head. He sees stars for a few minutes and then the dark, looming figure of William Beckett, his eyes hot enough to burn. “You’re a fucking asshole, Carden. And if you’re not there tonight, you’re out of the fucking band.”

“You can’t kick me out of the band! I helped start the band.”

“Then I’ll quit.”

“You can’t do that either.”

“And why the fuck not?”

“Because.” He’s not sure what to say, just that he knows he needs to say something, needs to make William _get_ it. This is it. This is what Mike’s wanted his entire life. Even if they never make it to the upper echelons of rock and roll, even if they only see the Hall of Fame from the dirty windows of their tour van. This is _it_. “Because we’re a team.”

William doesn’t reply, but he does reach down to help Mike to his feet. “You’d better be at the show, Mike.”

“If I am, werewolves will ravage Chicago.”

William gives him a look. “If you aren’t, we’re done.”

**

Mike plays the gig.

He can’t _not_ , and besides, it’s not like there aren’t a bunch of other werewolf hunters out there. Or at least that’s the excuse he gives his dad. It ends up being for nothing anyway, since apparently the tea leaves or star charts or something were fucked up and, like oolong instead of Earl Grey or Venus was in retrograde instead of on the rise. Mike doesn’t really listen to his dad bitching.

Not that he can hear him over William’s frequent refrain of “We’re going on mother-fucking tour with mother-fucking Midtown, sons of bitches” as he informs everyone they’ve ever met. Mike’s just as excited if he’s honest, but he’s a lot more low-key than Princess Beckett.

“We’re just disappointed, Michael,” His dad says. “This was your chance to prove yourself.”

“You just said there weren’t any…” He stops before he says the word, catching himself just as William hits one of those weird lulls that, inevitably, are filled with someone saying something stupid or embarrassing. “You said nobody showed up.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Actually, Dad, that _is_ the point. This is what I do. The band is doing things. Going places.”

“You’re a werewolf hunter, Michael.”

“Dad! I am not.” He glances around for William and then lowers his voice. “There _aren’t_ any werewolves, Dad. They don’t exist. Have you ever killed one? No, because they’re not real. I don’t know who was telling you all these things and what drugs they gave you to make you believe them…”

“Your great-grandmother Trudy was killed by a werewolf, Michael.”

“ _Dad._.”

“Fine. Fine. Forget all about your training. Let it slide like it doesn’t matter, but you mark my words, Michael, you’ll regret it.”

“Yeah, I know, Dad. When I’m alone in a deserted ghost town, facing down a bunch of rabid werewolves, I’ll look back on this day and wish I’d listened to you. I promise. Now, can you just be _happy_ for me? For us? We’re touring with Midtown. It’s a big deal.”

“Congratulations.” It’s grudging, but it’s better than nothing.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“But…”

He hangs up before he can hear any more, before he can be warned of impending doom or slathering jaws. He’s got shit to do, things to pack, people to call who aren’t related or likely to tell him he’s missing out on his destiny. Destiny can suck him. He’s going on tour.

**

Here’s the thing about a crossbow: It’s nearly impossible to hide in a van or a tour bus. The van was almost easier, since everything pretty much stayed put. No one moved around except from one seat to another and everything stayed packed until it was unpacked. On the bus, there’s always a chance someone will get into things no matter how well Mike manages to pack them or hide them.

Which is why he’s avoiding the medic tent and the question of why Sisky has a silver-tipped bolt lodged in the meat of his thigh. The worst thing is that everyone’s going to assume Mike _shot_ him, which kind of pisses Mike off – he’s not _that_ mean. But on the other hand, it also gives him something of a reputation and, when you’re on the road with Gabe Saporta and the Midtown boys, you need all the help you can get.

Still, he feels bad about Adam, which is why he comes out of hiding long before sound check. William is staring at the gaping wound in Sisky’s thigh and Butcher is holding the bolt like a drumstick, twirling it with his fingers, flashes of silver slick with blood playing in the sunlight. “Wow,” Mike says.

“Wow.” William nods reasonably, because there’s really no other choice. “Wow as in ‘wow, that is a badass hole in your leg, Sisky.’ or wow as in ‘wow, I guess Sisky found my _motherfucking crossbow_ ’?”

“It can’t be both?”

William looks like he’d be a complete pushover. He’s skinny and waifish and sort of effeminate. Mike knows this not to be the case, knows that looks are really fucking deceiving, because William Beckett is all wiry, protective strength that he uses regularly to kick the ass of guys twice his size. Or he would if he had any interest in fighting. (Which he doesn’t. If Carden had a dollar for every time William said, “I’m a lover not a fighter, Carden”, Carden wouldn’t be on a _bus_ toting around a goddamned crossbow).

Right now though, that looks likely to change. Carden and Bill may have started The Academy Is…, but William is really fucking protective of Sisky. That might have something to do with a promise to Jason or maybe just because Sisky sometimes comes across as a bit of a special case, but either way, crossbow bolts aren’t likely to be on William’s list of ‘things Sisky should be allowed to play with’.

“Maybe I should put this another way.” William always sounds reasonable and educated, which is another thing Mike adds to his own list of ‘reasons why everyone assumes they can kick William’s ass,’ but Mike knows that’s just a really clear sign that Bill’s about to turn from Bruce Banner into The Incredible Hulk. Only without the torn purple pants. “Do you or do you not have some idea of why Adam has a gaping wound in his thigh?”

“The answer to that is yes.”

“If I dare ask you to expand on this knowledge, am I going to regret it?”

“As the answer to what you asked might, in all truth, be ‘because Adam’s a dumbass’, I’m going to say yes to that too.”

William closes his eyes and exhales, repeating his deep breathing for a minute before he turns to Butcher. “Stay here with Adam?”

“You got it, man.”

William nods, watching as Andy twirls the bold. “And maybe put that away before someone else gets hurt.”

Butcher looks like he’s going to argue, but something in William’s face must stop him. “I can keep it though, right?”

William says yes, just as Mike says no, and suddenly Mike finds himself the center of William’s attention. “Carden? We need to talk.”

“But…” Mike swallows hard as William’s eyes narrow dangerously. “But not here.”

**

They kick everyone else off the bus, and it takes a lot of willpower not to punch a bunch of the guys in their face for their comments. William just ignores it or flips shit right back at them, taking it all in stride. Holy _fuck_ , he’s freaking out more than Beckett. This is way worse than he thought.

“So.” William sits on the sofa and stretches his long legs out in front o f him. “Vampires?”

“Vampires?” Mike can’t believe what he’s hearing. _Vampires_? “Since when does silver mean fuck-all to vampires. Jesus, Bill.” He rolls his eyes and flops down across from William. “Know your fucking folklore. Besides, vampires aren’t real.”

“I do know my folklore, _Michael_ , and silver is well-known to be bad for vampires, so maybe you can tell me, if it’s not because of vampires, why my guitarist just so happens to have a fucking _crossbow_ on our tour bus, and is lecturing me on horror mythology. Because you can bet your sweet ass Weezer doesn’t ever have to put up with this kind of thing.”

Mike’s pretty sure that Weezer actually does from what his dad has told him, but one unbelievable thing at a time.

“And what do you mean, ‘they aren’t real’?”

“This whole day has been full of weird and ridiculous shit, and that’s what you’re going to focus on?” Mike doesn’t give William a chance to answer. “Fine. I mean they don’t exist. They’re mythical. They’re story telling from the old country to explain away really fucked up people who did really fucked up things to other people.”

“Like shoot a crossbow bolt through their bandmate’s thigh?”

“ _I didn’t fucking shoot him_.”

“You brought a _crossbow_ onto our _bus_. You’ve _met_ Sisky. What in the name of all that is holy made you think any of that in _any_ combination was a good idea?”

“Well,” Mike snaps, “it’s not like we could just leave our bass player at home.” William’s eyes narrow into a glare and Mike sighs. “Okay, okay. It’s just…it’s hard to explain.”

“Hard to explain or the explanation is completely ridiculous?” William cocks an eyebrow and Mike remembers that they’re friends with Gabe Saporta and Pete Wentz. Ridiculous is a requirement.

“I’m a werewolf hunter.”

“And Sisky’s a werewolf?”

“No, Sisky is an imbecile who doesn’t know better than to not play with a fucking crossbow when he finds it.” Mike rubs his face roughly with both hands. Bill is definitely not amused. “It’s pure silver. He’ll heal practically without a scar.”

“Sisky probably wants a scar. Thinks it’ll make him look tough.”

“Given where the scar would be, if he’s gotten far enough with them that they can see it, tough isn’t what they’re looking for.” Mike sighs. “Shit, Bill.”

William looks at him steadily, clearly evaluating the situation. Mike’s both relieved and frightened by the prospect. “You know we’re not actually touring with any werewolves, right?”

“Right.”

“So why do you actually have a crossbow on the tour bus?”

“Just in case?”

William nods and then gets to his feet. “You’re sleeping in the equipment van tonight.”

**  
William's pretty quiet after everything with Sisky, and he helps Mike come up with a cover story that must seem plausible enough, or maybe the guys on the tour take a lot more than pure silver bolts and a crossbow to get weirded out. Mike believes the second more than the first, but he supposes anything is possible. Bill's pretty convincing when he wants to be. That and half the guys they hang out with spend most of their time in some sort of altered state - between pills and pot and booze, someone's fucked up on tour at all times.

The problem with luck like that though is that it runs out. And when it runs out, it runs out fast and spectacularly. That's the best explanation he has for the night of the full moon when, instead of drinking with the guys from Gym Class, he's walking around the perimeter of their buses with his bow and a pouch full of bolts. He's _felt_ something all day, something that's itching under his skin, and when he made a reluctant call to his dad, he was informed that tonight was the night. Tonight he was going to get his first wolf.

Mike's sure the only thing he's likely to get tonight is a case of poison ivy. He's not getting a wolf and he's _certainly_ not getting laid. In fact, the hot chick he was totally planning on spending some time with is probably in some dark corner with Butcher, asking him about his tattoos and learning just how far down they go.  
Mike's life _sucks_. Still, talking to his dad on the phone was probably the first time his parents have sounded excited or proud of him since he told them he was joining a band, so he's just going to revel in that instead of thinking about the fact that the tour is over and his right hand's the only action he's getting for a long time.

There's a movement in the corner of his eye and he drops into a low crouch. He can feel the spike in his adrenaline, the surge of excitement that's almost the same as walking out onto the stage. He forces himself to breathe slower, moving toward the tree line and keeping to the shadows. There's another movement, more pronounced this time, and he tracks it, moving closer and raising his crossbow. Leaves rustle and he can hear a soft grunt, the wet sound of lips smacking. He tightens his grip then makes himself relax, remember the hours of training his dad drilled into him. Breathe through your nose. Stay to the trees. Keep downwind.

He moves with the sound of whatever it is - _it's a fucking werewolf_ \- following as close as he can. It stops moving when it gets to a copse of trees and Mike stops as well, bracing himself against a tree. His heart is pounding, and he's pretty sure he might pass out. He raises the crossbow again and waits, breathing with the slow wind. The moon comes out from behind a cloud and he exhales, releasing the bolt and watching as it sails across through the trees and across the clearing, connecting with a solid thunk of flesh.

"Holy fucking shit, what the actual goddamned fucking fuck?"

"Oh shit," Mike whispers under his breath, whirling around and taking off for the bus. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit." He careens into a couple of people walking hand in hand and mutters an apology as he keeps going, nearly running head-first into the GCH bus. He finally gets to their own bus and heads straight for his bunk, ignoring Sisky and Bill as they try to beat Mike's record on Carnage Heart. He leaps over Sisky's legs and nearly stumbles on someone's rank pair of tennis shoes and ends up in his bunk without killing himself, but it's a close call. He's shivering like he's got a fever and he tries to hide the crossbow under his pillow.

"Hey." Bill tugs the curtain open and leans against the side of the bunk. There's nothing casual about it, no matter how easy his stance, and he looks somewhere between worried and alarmed. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing's going on."

"Uh-huh." He glances toward the pillow where the crossbow is sticking out from all four sides. "I can see that."

"It's a full moon."

"Tell me you didn't shoot anybody, Mike."

"I didn't shoot anybody."

William groans. "Oh, god. You _shot_ someone?"

"I thought it was a-" he drops his voice and wrinkles his nose as he leans in toward William. "-a you-know-what."

"Mike!" William drops his head back and exhales roughly. "There is _no such thing_ as a..."

" _Don't say it out loud_." Mike clamps a hand over William's mouth and hisses. "Jesus, Bill. I hit _something_ and it looked like a...a you-know-what and we don't know that it _wasn't_."

"Did it howl at the fucking moon, Mike?"

Mike shoves William back and climbs out of his bunk, glaring up at his lead singer. The height difference is embarrassing, but Mike doesn't care. He's angry enough to make up for a foot or so in attitude. "I know you think this is a _joke_ , but..."

"Bullshit, Mike. You think it's a joke too. It _is_ a joke. Your parents are delusional and they're making you delusional and you've been doing this since you were a teenager and you've never fucking _seen_ a werewolf."

"It wasn't _normal_ , Bill." He needs William to believe him, because pretty much Mike's entire belief system is based around William Beckett, so without that reassurance, he's got fuck-all. "Whatever I shot, it _wasn't normal_."

"Okay. Okay." William tugs Mike into one of his stupid long-armed hugs, which would normally get him punched in the stomach, but Mike doesn't fight it. Instead, he relaxes into it, needing William's strength. It's part of what they do - lean back or lean in and know that the other will be there, not faltering. William's a wiry little fucker, but he's strong, and Mike needs that right now. "Okay, so...here's the thing - if it was a...if it _was_ , then what happens when you shoot one?"

"I don't know." He can feel the breathlessness come back, the anxiety welling up in his chest and making it impossible to breathe. "I don't _know_."

"Well, call someone who _has_ shot one before and find out what happens. Are we going to go out and find some dead wolf or a dead person or what?"

"Right. Right. I'll call...I'll call my dad. Or my uncle Mark. They probably know…I mean, somebody has to have...there has to be like...something. Right?"

"Right."

Mike nods and picks up his phone, dialing his father before he can think about it too much. His dad doesn’t answer, and neither does his Uncle Mark when he calls him, and Mike’s not leaving any kind of message that would make his family think he believes any of this for a minute.

“Okay. So…So we’ll just…go down there and see…what we see.”

“Right.”

“Right.” Mike moves away from William and tugs his denim jacket tighter around him. “Let’s go.”

The clearing is empty. At least, he thinks it’s the right clearing, and he’s sure it’s empty, because there’s no anything. No dead person. No dead werewolf. No dying transforming thing. No silver tipped bolt. William glances around, waving the flashlight in Mike’s face. “Well, either it dissolved into nothing, you were hallucinating or you have one pissed off werewolf gunning for you.”

“It was _real_.”

“There’s _nothing_ here, Mike.”

“There _was_.”

“Well, there isn’t now, and that’s all I’ve got to go on. C’mon.” He turns off the flashlight, leaving them in the silvery glow of the full moon. “Let’s go back to the bus.”

**

“Oh, shit.”

Mike hears William’s voice despite the fact that he has his pillow and all his covers piled on top of his head. He peeks out from behind his curtain and glances down the hallway. Tom is standing at the end of the bunks and there’s a crossbow bolt sticking out of his ass. There’s no way of denying the fact that the bolt belongs to Mike’s crossbow, even if there were more than one crossbow actually on the tour. Conrad is furious, his brows knit together in a glare as he meets Mike’s gaze. “You.”

“Hey, Tomrad.” Mike slides out of the bunk, not about to let Conrad get the best of him, no matter how at fault he might be. “Where you been?”

“Where have I…” He takes a step toward Mike and then stops. “You son-of-a…” He lunges forward, which has to hurt like hell with the bolt still in him, but never let it be said that Tomrad’s not fucking determined. Mike jumps into Sisky’s bunk to get out of his way, but it’s unnecessary, since William grabs Tom before he can get too far. “Let me go, Bill. I’m gonna fucking _kill_ him.”

“Hey! Hey!” Mike holds up a hand. “We tried to find you. We went looking for you. It’s not my fault that you decided to go exploring with a bolt in your ass.”

“ _Exploring!_ ” Tom turns a strange shade of red and tugs against Bill’s grip. “I didn’t go exploring, you asshole. I went looking for _you_.”

“I came right back here.”

“Yeah, well, it took me a little while to get my bearings since I got shot in the _ass_.” He lunges for Mike again, but William keeps him still. “What the actual fuck?”

“I thought you were something else. Er, someone else. Something. Else. Not…I didn’t realize it was _you_.”

Tom laughs roughly, and he finally shakes off William’s grip on his arm. “Oh, I’m supposed to feel lucky that you didn’t do it on _purpose_?”

“And that I don’t have better aim.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Mike Carden.” He makes a move and William grabs him again as Carden dodges past them and out of the bus. “I’m going to fucking kill you with your own goddamned crossbow shoved up your ass.” He keeps yelling, and Mike can hear him all the way to the Gym Class bus. “You’re a dead man, Carden. _Dead._.”

Travie crashes in the lounge so Mike can have his bunk. He leaves a message for his parents and tells them he’s done and he’s dropping off the crossbow the next time they hit Chicago. He knows it won’t do any good, and it certainly doesn’t help him sleep, though it is comforting to know that at least half the band has been ruled out as werewolves.

**

There are a few full moons between the tour with Gym Class, Midtown and Fall Out Boy before they hit Warped, and they go okay, but the minute they hit Warped, Mike knows the relative peace and quiet is over. Warped is a whole new world. Bus after bus after bus and trailer after trailer after trailer. It’s half party and half claustrophobia, and all hormones with everyone sniffing around, acting like animals.

They ride along with the tour for a week before it’s their turn to take the stage, and the shows are amazing. The sun is boiling hot and the crowds are electric and Mike spends most of his time drinking, performing or getting off thanks to the crowds. Still, he feels like he’s itching under the skin, a million bees just below the surface. It’s unnerving as hell, and Mike’s jittery enough that he finds a supply of joints on his bunk with a note instructing him to chill the fuck out since he’s making even _Butcher_ paranoid.

Lots of things are off, not quite right. Even William’s been quiet and withdrawn, but Mike chalks that up to parting ways with Midtown more than the weird Warped vibe. Not that anyone’s stupid enough to _mention_ Midtown around him, since the last time someone did, William got this look like a kicked puppy and went to his bunk to sulk. It does make Mike kind of glad Wentz spends most of his time on the My Chem side of the camp, given that he’s got a knack for pushing buttons, and Mike’s got enough of his own shit to deal with without having to take on his baby diva singer’s first crush. Not that he’d say that out loud. At least not again. Last time he did, William kicked him in the nuts and Mike had to walk hunched over for the rest of the day, and performing that evening was a _bitch_.

He’d planned to leave his crossbow at home, but at the last minute, he’d convinced William to let him take it along, even though it’s stored in a compartment _under_ the bus so he doesn’t have ready access to it. Of course, that also means neither does Sisky, and since Tom wouldn’t step foot on the bus until he’d been assured there was no crossbow, Mike takes the out that Bill gives him. He shouldn’t be so fucking grateful to have it along, but something about the way everything feels off makes him glad it’s there, and he checks for it every morning and every night.

It starts innocently enough – if you can call it _innocent_ \- when three girls scale the fences and hide out on the TAI bus. They pop out of the shower when Sisky opens the bathroom door, and he pisses himself in surprise, falling backward and getting it all over the ragged carpet. The girls jump over him and tackle William to the floor and it takes a good half an hour before they get them off Bill and off the bus and into the arms of security, and by then, William’s got scratch marks all over him, a hickey on his left shoulder and Mike’s pretty sure one of the girls snipped off a lock of William’s hair.

After that, security gets beefed up, but it’s a big festival and there’s a lot of bands and when it comes to the food chain, TAI ranks somewhere around ‘chum’, so the guards mostly focus on bands most of the people are coming to see, or have at least heard of, like All-American Rejects, Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance. Which means that when they’re in Detroit, a group of fans gets through security and Mike finds William behind a bus, surrounded by four girls busy ripping his t-shirt to pieces while he’s trying to explain very earnestly that he really has to be somewhere else, and they’re all very lovely. Mike uses the Super Soaker on the four of them and William, though he promises Bill that was just an accident.

Pittsburgh is another group of girls that decide William needs a gangbang, practically dragging him off toward the merch tents before he even manages to get off the stage riser. Mike doesn’t actually _plan_ to intervene, since William has no one to blame but himself for spending the set with his shirt unbuttoned, laying out over the crowd with nothing but one steel post keeping him above their grabbing hands. Besides, the girls are hot and he’s pretty sure even the specter of Gabe Saporta can’t stand up to six girls in cutoff denim shorts and bikini tops. There’s only so much moodiness Mike can take before Bill just has to get laid.

So really, it’s in everyone’s best interests until Mike sees a tech accidentally bump into one of the girls, his apology cut off by bared teeth and a snarl.

“Well, fuck.” The TAI bus is on the other side of the venue and somehow he’s pretty sure these girls aren’t going to listen if he asks them to wait. He grabs the first people he sees, sighing in relief when he realizes he might have snagged the only two people on the tour likely to _actually_ be of help. “Bob. Ray. Hi. Help.” He half drags them, desperation and sheer willpower for strength. “William. Girls.”

“It’s okay, Carden,” Bob informs him. “They don’t really have cooties.”

“These do. Underage cooties.” Underage is the rallying cry of all the bands on the tour; none of them keen to end up in jail or worse.

“Isn’t William technically underage?”

“No.” Carden flips Ray off despite the fact that he needs his help. “He’s twenty.”

“Huh.” Ray keeps moving toward the parking lot in pursuit of the girls, so Mike figures he’s not too offended. William glances back as if he’s realized something’s wrong and Mike sees a small trickle of blood running down William’s forearm from where one of the girls has her nails sunk into his skin.

Bob jogs forward just as the girls and William break the line of tents, getting in front of them before they can actually manage to leave the venue. “Hey.”

“Bob. Bob Bryar. Hi.” William’s voice isn’t normal, a high rise of panic in it. “Am I late? For our thing?”

“Yeah, and headed the wrong way.” Bob grabs William’s upper arm and tugs, and there’s actually a struggle. Ray’s eyebrows disappear into his hair and he walks over and very carefully disengages the hold one of the girls has on William. Mike can feel the low-level growl even if he can’t hear it. William looks shaken as Bob and Ray lead him past the girls and back to Mike.

Mike watches them, wondering for a minute what on earth it is about William that pegged him as a prime catch, then he shakes his head, wondering if he’s gone insane, feeling neglected because a bunch of werewolves didn’t try to kidnap him for questionable purposes.

“You know, Carden, I didn’t think I’d ever thank you for destroying my chance at an orgy.”

He nods, watching the group of girls leave, their eyes narrowed to angry yellow slits as they look back at him. He doesn’t turn back until they’re in their car and when he does, Bob and Ray are gone and William’s standing there, shivering despite the heat. Mike presses a warm hand to William’s back, guiding him toward their bus. “Yeah, well, make sure you quit your pissing and moaning so I don’t regret my decision.”

**

The next gig is Atlanta, and the night of the full moon. Mike unpacks the crossbow from its hiding place and checks it over, ignoring Conrad’s sucked-in breath.

“I told you to leave that in Chicago.”

Mike glances at him, blinking slowly. “Yeah, well, fortunately, I don’t have to listen to you.”

“We are in the middle of a major city at a major festival show filled with thousands of screaming people and you’re bringing out a _crossbow_.” Tom doesn’t really do heated, he’s regularly a pretty mellow guy, but his voice is edging toward annoyed. Mike’s beginning to suspect that Tom reserves annoyed just for him. “Is it just the guy who got shot in the _ass_ that thinks this is a really bad idea?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mike informs him. He hefts the crossbow in one hand and his guitar in the other. “I don’t know if the rest of you have noticed or not, but there’s some freaky shit going on on this tour…”

“Nah, man. That’s just Pete.”

Mike ignores Sisky, a skill borne from years of practice. “And tonight’s the full moon and that’s when freaky shit gets even freakier and I’m not about to be unprepared.”

“Unprepared to _what_?” Tom grabs the crossbow and jerks it away from Mike’s side. “Shoot more innocent people in the ass?”

“You’re lucky it was _just_ the ass, Conrad.”

William rolls his eyes at Mike’s growl. “Girls. Girls. You’re both pretty.”

“Fuck you, Beckett.” Mike jerks the crossbow out of Tom’s grip. “Next time I’ll let ‘em have you.”

William’s smile fades and he gets to his feet. “Leave the crossbow here until after the gig. After that, no one will mention it. Fair enough?” He looks from Mike to Tom and then back again until they both nod. “Okay. Let’s go make a bunch of teenage girls have their first orgasms.”

Sisky wrinkles his nose. “What about the teenage guys?”

“We’ll leave them to you, Sisky.”

**

The concert goes off without a hitch, and they manage to catch some other bands, hanging on the back and sides of the stage to watch My Chem and Fall Out Boy. It’s a lot like high school or a class field trip, riding the coattails of the cool kids. William talks with Patrick, teasing him and playing with the brim of his hat and Pete cackles with glee every time Patrick bats William’s hand away. Maybe it’s more like being brothers, and they’re the younger ones, tagging along and annoying everyone older.

After everyone’s set, there’s a bonfire and booze and a few other substances. Mike hangs back by the edge of the crowd, so it takes him a while to notice the commotion on the other side of the blaze. He works his way around and sighs in relief as he sees William wrapped in a hug with Gabe instead of with a bunch of underage girls. Pete and Mikey and the rest of TAI are there as well, all of them listening to Gabe wax philosophic. Or bullshit. With Gabe it’s sometimes hard to tell.

There’s more booze and more pot and maybe a few pills passed around, conversation and contradiction and flat out lies, and someone even starts roasting marshmallows. Mike spears three of them on the tip of his crossbow, the hit he’d taken from Trohman’s joint giving him a fierce case of the munchies. All three catch on fire and he’s in the middle of blowing them out when he realizes Beckett’s missing. Which wouldn’t be a big issue, given the present company, except that Gabe’s busy talking to Pete and Mikey.

Well _shit_.

He grabs the bow and heads over to them, nudging Gabe in the side. “Where’s Beckett?”

Gabe gives Mike a sharp look and an even sharper smile. “Went off to take a piss and hasn’t come back. Last I saw him, he was talking to a group of girls.”

“Fuck.” Mike looks around wildly and realizes he’s got fuck-all to work with and no way at all to convince any of them to listen to him. Gabe’s probably his best shot. He’s usually game for anything. “Fucking Beckett. Started the…the scavenger hunt without me.”

 _Scavenger hunt_ gets a few heads to turn; unfortunately, they’re all members of his band as well as the assembled trio. “Scavenger hunt?” Pete asks, his grin starting big and getting bigger. He’s a fucking Cheshire cat.

“Yeah.” Mike nods and glances around, catching Butcher’s eye and hoping they’ll all roll with it. “We’re a team. We have to find William.”

“Where’s the scavenger part?” Mikey asks, and Mike can hear the criticism in his monotone.

“Weapons. Gather weapons. Sharp ones. Sticks. Pointy things. I don’t fucking care. Grab shit and come on.” His marshmallows are still smoking, so he looks like he’s leading them all with a poor excuse for a flaming torch. He’s got a hard grip on Gabe’s wrist, not letting him go, given that he’s the most likely to be any help. Plus he saw which way William went.

Not that they need a bloodhound to find him. There’s a trail of William’s clothes, or shreds of them at least, lining the wide swath of shoved-over tents and tables and messed-up shit leading to and through the parking lot. It’s empty except for beer cans and a few incongruous white vans, and Mike’s worried that the trail ends there, except there’s a pile of faded denim on the opposite side of the lot, leading down into a dark patch of trees.

“Either this is weird,” Gabe informs him softly, “or Butcher’s got some seriously fucked up shit.”

“Maybe both.” Mike shoves a marshmallow in his mouth, glad of an excuse not to say anything more. The burned outside crinkles and then falls away, leaving a gooey mess in his mouth.

Mikey Way picks up the denim and adjusts his glasses. “Kinky.”

“Sweet.” Pete bounces on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go.”

“No.” Mike grabs his arm and talks around a mouthful of marshmallow. “Did you not hear me talk about weapons? The pointy things? You don’t just rush into the dark woods unprepared. You don’t know what you’re going to find in there…”

He breaks off as Pete pulls away, grabs Mikey’s hand and plunges into the woods. Everyone else follows them with whoops loud enough to wake the dead, like they’re diving into one of the water park pools. Mike hopes silently that they all break their stupid necks on the shallow end as he enters more quietly, his senses on full alert. Time to figure out what the fuck is going on and what he’s really up against.

William’s tied naked to a tree in front of a fire, surrounded by a bunch of slathering, sniffing werewolves. In the moments between when they’re in moonlight and beneath the tree branches, he can see flickers of the girls they normally are beneath their sleek pelts. All of his friends have stopped short at the sight and at the line of werewolves currently snarling in front of them.

No. Not just werewolves. Teen female werewolves.

He watches one of them lick a long line from Bill’s knee to his shoulder, her claws pressed against the soft flesh of William’s stomach.

No. Teen female werewolves in _heat_.

Mike Carden hates his life.

Two of the werewolves peel off from Bill. They’re at the end of the line anyway, and they join the rest that are snarling with bared teeth at his friends and, if he gives Pete any kind of credit, his boss. Probably not going to look good on his review. No one appears to be wearing anything silver, because Carden just doesn’t have luck like that, but when one of the werewolves lunges at Sisky and he goes down, the werewolf whimpers in just as much pain as he does. Well, that’s interesting. And it means that Sisky and Conrad are two less people Mike has to worry about. Which only leaves Butcher, William, Pete, Mikey and Gabe.

Mike _really_ fucking hates his life.

“Not to put a rush on anything here,” William calls out, his voice slightly shaky, “but I’m not all that fond of the idea of impregnating a bunch of teenage werewolves. I can’t afford the child support or the statutory rape charges.”

“You’re tied up and outnumbered,” Mikey informs him. “I think that might complicate things.” He turns to Pete and grins. “I _so_ have to tell Gerard about this.”

“No! God, don’t tell anyone.” Mike grabs his crossbow off his back and aims carefully at the werewolf currently doing…something to William he doesn’t ever want to think about again to William. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, opening them and letting the bolt loose on the exhale. He’s killing werewolves. Not teenaged girls. They are going to eat him and his friends. This is the right thing to do.

“Mother _fucker_ , you stupid fucking son of a _bitch_.”

Mike blinks and blinks again, not sure he’s really seeing what he thinks he’s seeing, which is Tom Conrad with a bolt sticking out of the opposite ass cheek than last time. “I was aiming at the one by _Bill_ , why the fuck did you _move_?”

“I got grabbed by a fucking whatever-this-is, you stupid _fuck_.”

“Hey, guys?” Gabe’s voice is as dry and laconic as Mike’s ever heard it. “Less in-fighting? Before William finds himself the _papi_ to a litter of puppies, huh?”

Carden grabs another bolt and sets it in the bow to fire when a flash of light catches him off guard. Butcher’s got both hands on the bolt they’d pulled from Sisky’s thigh and the tip of it is buried in the chest of the werewolf beneath him. At least, it was a werewolf. After the flash of light, she’s just a scantily clad teenaged girl with a slight overbite and slightly enlarged canines. And she’s still breathing and not bleeding, despite the silver crossbow bolt buried directly in her heart. That’s encouraging.

After that, it’s…well, it isn’t _easy_ , but it’s easier. Gabe grabs one of Mike’s bolts and starts jabbing his way through to get to William and the rest of them manage to get the werewolves herded in toward Mike and Butcher. Tom jerks the bolt out of his own ass and starts stabbing werewolves with it, though Mike is pretty sure he’s putting a different face on his targets. Gabe jabs his bolt into the back of the neck of the girl who is currently bathing William in slobber and closes his eyes as she falls at his feet like a swooning fan, losing an excessive amount of body hair in the process. “You okay?”

William nods and then shakes his head and then starts laughing. Everyone looks at him and then looks around and then back at William. Mike glares. “What?”

“Apparently they do exist.”

Mike starts to say something, but realizes it’s pointless when he looks at William and realizes he’s passed out. Conrad helps Gabe untie him from the tree and Mike looks over to see Pete and Mikey coming back into the clearing, both of them looking more than a little disheveled. “Fuck, Wentz. You couldn’t wait until _after_ we saved him?”

“Werewolves turn me on.” He shrugs and takes off his hoodie, passing it to Mike. “Give this to William to wear. People see him walking around naked, we’re going to have _human_ girls trying to kidnap him too.”

“I hate all of you,” Mike informs them. “For the record.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mutual.” Conrad wraps his arm around William’s waist on the other side from Gabe. “Can we go back to the bus now? Standing here with William naked in the middle of a clearing with a bunch of passed out teenage girls makes me a little nervous.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, and they all listen to him, given his status of connoisseur of all things profoundly sketchy. “Let’s go. It kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Werewolves turn him on, but unconscious girls give him the creeps.” Gabe looks upward and sighs. “What am I getting myself into here?”

**

Gabe stays with them the rest of the tour, hanging out in the lounge and telling dirty jokes with a flair that belies description. Mike spends most of the time on the phone with his Dad, yelling about how silver doesn’t actually _kill_ werewolves, it _cures_ them and then his dad flies out to Florida to interrogate Mike on what werewolves are actually like since he’s never actually fucking _seen_ one. Gabe assures Mike that William doesn’t have any bite marks, and Mike doesn’t ask how he knows, but Pete and Mikey are disappointed and disappear into their own buses as soon as they realize William’s not going to turn into some slathering beast.

Mike needs new friends.

He also needs new parents, because he starts getting weird phone calls and emails from the Werewolf Hunter Association of Training (WHAT, which Mike thinks is really fucking appropriate as far as names go), asking him to give speeches and shit, because apparently he’s the only person in over two hundred years to actually come face to face with a werewolf. Just his fucking luck. He ignores all of them, just as much as he ignores Butcher telling him he’s keeping his crossbow bolt, thank you very much, and Sisky asking him if he can have a crossbow of his own, and Tom informing Mike that if he comes near him for any reason, he’s going to stab Mike in the ass with something.

Of course, of _everything_ , that’s the one thing that gets overheard, and Mike spends the entire day overhearing bands and fans alike commenting on how they knew Mike and Tom were hot for each other, all that hate had to be coming from somewhere. He considers stabbing himself with the crossbow bolt, but the way his luck is going, it would probably make him immortal.

Gabe offers him a bottle of some decent vodka and wraps his arm around Mike’s shoulders, pulling him down on one of the concrete pylons that line the bus area. “So. That was some freaky shit.”

“Yeah.” Mike unscrews the lid and takes a swallow, tears stinging his eyes at the burn. “Not enough that it’s Warped, you know? I had to go and make it special.”

“Given that he’s apparently prime mating material for a group of overly amorous werewolves, Pete’s interest in William suddenly makes a lot more sense, huh?”

Carden pauses, bottle halfway to his mouth and turns his head to give Gabe a look. It takes another minute or so for his brain to process it, and Gabe rescues the booze before Mike drops it when he starts to laugh. “Fuck, man. Fuck. Fuck my fuckin’ life.” He takes the booze back and swallows another long pull. “At least there won’t be any werewolves in the studio.”

“I don’t know if that’s going to get Tomrad in there with you, man.” Gabe stretches out his ridiculously long legs and steals the bottle, taking a drink of his own. “It might take a bigger man than our Tomrad is to forgive getting shot in the ass twice.”

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_.”

“Tell that to the man who can’t sit down.” Gabe looks up at the blue sky, the ghost of the waning moon still visible. “Midtown’s done. Two more shows and then we’re done”

“Oh…fuck, man.”

“So, see?” Gabe smiles at him as he pushes off the pylon, leaving Mike in the sunshine with a bottle of vodka. “There are worse things than being a werewolf hunter.”

**

It turns out that Gabe’s right. Tom leaves the band (acrimoniously and with a lot of words that Mike doesn’t actually understand being tossed back and forth between Tom and Bill, but it all boils down to the fact that Tom’s got two slight scars in his ass cheeks, and he’s never forgiving Carden for them ever), but they do all agree to stick to a story that makes Mike and William the villains, for the most part, but at least it’s not even close to the truth.

Butcher stays on and, on nights of the full moon, he always drums with his crossbow bolt. Sisky experiments with whether or not metallic silver tank tops have any effect on warding off werewolves, and William doesn’t stray far from Mike when they’re on tour, especially when they’re surrounded by teenage girls.

All in all, Mike thinks it works out pretty well, and when they work with Butch Walker and he meets Michael Guy Chislett, it’s even better. Especially when he stumbles into the studio earlier than everyone else and sees Chis trying to find someplace to stow his crossbow.

“Behind the subwoofers.” Mike informs him, swallowing down half his cup of coffee. “Trust me.”

**

Epilogue

Mike does his level best to make sure his family never sees the “A Little Less ‘Sixteen Candles’, a Little More ‘Touch Me’” video, because he doesn’t want to explain about that really, really drunk night on Pete’s bus when even Patrick was plowed and Butcher and Trohman were having a battle of the _really good shit_ , and Mike didn’t stop Pete from talking about the night on Warped in Atlanta when the werewolves came to town. Pete decided that vampires were cooler, even though Mike’s told him a million times that vampires don’t exist. Besides, the make-up budget liked the idea of fangs and face paint better than full-on body fur.

At the shoot, William looks like something out of a Merchant Ivory movie, and he’s not even scary, which further vindicates Mike’s thoughts on vampires as the big bad guys in the monster world, but whenever he says anything, William just rolls his eyes and bares his fangs, and Mike nearly hurts himself laughing.

Mike spends part of the shoot talking to Andy about using the crossbow properly, glad that Sisky and Conrad aren’t there to add any comment. They’re talking about various types of bolts which Andy is scarily familiar with given his survivalist tendencies, when Mike feels a hot tingle at the base of his neck and turns around to see Spencer Smith watching them. He’s never actually seen a male werewolf before, but he’s convinced Smith _is_ one, so he keeps his distance. Of course, Tom’s tight with Jon who’s in a band with Spencer, and who knows what stories he might have already told, so Mike makes sure to stay on the other side of the shoot as much as he can. Just in case.

The thing is Spencer isn’t the only one who gives Mike the feeling that he should stay armed. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except they all end up being part of bands that Pete Wentz has a financial and/or personal interest in. Between Phantom Planet and Paramore and Panic, Mike’s gotten wary of any band with a name beginning with the letter P, especially if Wentz is talking about signing them.

Thankfully the emails to train and instruct werewolf hunters have stopped. Or he finally managed to block them. Whatever. He let Butcher have his computer for a day, and since then, he hasn’t heard word one from WHAT. His parents haven’t quite given up the dream of him making them famous in the werewolf hunting world, but Mike’s decided that says more about them than it does him.

“At least Buffy had vampires all the time, you know?” He’s on the bus, staring down over the edge of his bunk at William who is stretched out in the one beneath him. It used to be Sisky’s, but ever since the Halloween clown incident and the bed-wetting, everyone’s decided Bill’s the only one who can handle Mike. “I mean, I did all this training, right?” He pauses, waiting for William to stop laughing, reaching down to swat at him when he doesn’t. “Are you done?”

William chokes through another giggle then nods. “Yes. You. Training.”

“I _did_ do the training.” He sighs and rolls over, flopping onto his back. “But after a while, it’s like the boy who cried wolf, only no one cries wolf. Or even whispers it. They just all train and train and train and the werewolves never come.”

“Until they show up and try to eat your lead singer.”

“They weren’t trying to _eat_ you.” Mike sighs, rolling his eyes. “They were trying to _mate_ with you.”

William kicks the bottom of Mike’s bunk. “That’s not actually _better_.”

“And besides, we haven’t seen a werewolf since then. Well, verifiably. No one that’s actually wolfed out in front of me, so I can’t be 100 percent sure, but werewolves make Pete horny-”

“What doesn’t?”

“So they’re probably using that to their advantage to get him to sign them. I bet there’s a werewolf grapevine or…or like a werewolf bathroom wall. ‘Have a band? For a good time, call Pete Wentz’.”

“Anyway, you’re sure Spencer is, right? You could kill him just on werewolf hunter principle. You don’t want him turning all the young, unsuspecting people in the audience. Besides, no one would miss Panic, I bet.” William’s voice is halfway encouraging and all bitter, just like all of them when they talk about Panic. Little fucking punks. “The rest of us will distract Pete and you can move in. Archery practice gone wrong. Self defense. Whatever you need. Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”

“I’m not _100 percent_ sure. Not that it matters, because the silver doesn’t kill people. Or werewolves, remember?”

“But if it _does_ turn him back, you’ll know he was, and then you could use real bolts. Just to be safe.”

Mike looks over the edge of the bunk again. “You don’t accidentally kill four people with a crossbow, Beckett. Especially twice.”

“We could photoshop some pictures. Make them all foam at the mouth. Tell the cops they were rabid. Bitten by rabid fans. Everyone would buy that.”

“Do you really want to see Pete cry like a baby?” He slumps back on the bunk, staring at the ceiling again.

“He’d get over it.” William huffs out a breath and Mike can hear him moving around in his bunk. He always feels sorry for people like William and Gabe and Travie and Ryland – all too tall for buses and bunks, but forced to curl up in them anyway and pretend they can get some sleep. “Seriously, let me know if you change your mind. It’s not like Pete knows you own a crossbow anymore. Hell, given that he and Mikey spent most of the time in Atlanta getting each other off in the woods, I doubt he remembers what was real and what’s just fantasy material. And it’s not like we’d tell him. Then we’d have to find a new guitarist, and you know what a bitch that is.”

“Did we deplete Butch Walker’s supply already?” Mike reaches up and pokes the ceiling above his bunk. “You know what sucks? Being told you have a calling when you’re a kid and finding out you suck at it.”

“You don’t suck at it.”

“It took Gabe and Sisky and Conrad and Butcher to help me save you.”

“There were a lot of werewolves, dude.”

“Female, teenage werewolves.” He looks over the edge of the bunk again at William. “In heat.” He frowns, sighing softly. “And they haven’t been seen since, so everyone probably thinks I made it up.”

“Of course you did,” William grins wolfishly. “Because there’s no such thing as werewolves.”

“Seriously, dude?” Mike glares at him, flopping back on his bunk again when William starts to laugh. “Next time you’re saving your _own_ ass.”  



End file.
